The Illustrious Detective
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: Based on the Conan Doyle story 'The Illustrious Client'. Sherlock has been set upon and left for dead. Now bleeding and in pain his life hangs in the balance. His only hope lies in John finding him in time, but John doesn't know where Sherlock is... he doesn't even know he's missing. Will he be able to find his friend in time? Or will help come too late? Set during Season 1.


**SHERLOCK**

 **The Illustrious Detective**

Bruised and bleeding, Sherlock sat in a warm, sticky puddle of his own blood – his back stretched up against the cold wall of the alleyway. Every part of his stupidly fallible body hurt, throbbed or ached. He gently shifted his position to relive the pain of bruises to one side of his body, only to find more larger, even more painful ones to the other side. He couldn't believe how stupid he'd been… they'd been children, mere boys, with no more than pale fists with which to arm themselves, and further more experience than the latest video game. He'd thought he could take them… that had been until one of the youths had produced a knife from deep within his blazer pocket, and he'd been no match for the sharp edge of the metallic blade.

The attack hadn't been a frenzied one, but the weapon had served its purpose all the same, and the only consolation was that it had at least been over quickly. The job had evidently been a professional one, and they'd managed to get him with several deep cuts to his torso before leaving him for dead.

Deep, but not life threatening, at least not so Sherlock had thought – not at first anyway – they'd left it to the elements to see to the rest.

His knowledge of unarmed combat hadn't completely eluded him, and he'd managed to take out a couple of them before he'd finally felt the blade sink deep into his side – biting through soft flesh and tissue with agonising ease – and with sinking desperation he'd realised that this was one confrontation he couldn't hope to win.

If only he's listened to John.

The pain, as the jagged point of the blade had ripped through his flesh, had been unbearable, and as his knees had bucked from underneath him he'd had to stifle a muffled whimper – not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry – as warm blood trickled from the wound in his side.

Only a few hours ago he'd been happy – content even – for one of only a few times in his life. Ignoring the death threats which had landed on his doorstep early that morning he and John had dined at Angelo's before Sherlock had left his friend to tackle a rather large dish of desert, whilst he took a walk of the solitary back streets of London.

He'd promised to meet John back at the flat later.

Sherlock had needed to think – their latest case was proving quite a challenging one, even for him – and he couldn't do that in the busy, bustling environment of the restaurant.

It was a cold, wet Monday evening – a bitter breeze blowing the heavy late night rain in dregs across the city landscape – and the streets were near enough deserted this time of night.

The solitary, silent backstreets of London had set the atmosphere well. They had long since given Sherlock an ideal environment in which to think, and had provided the youths with the perfect vantage point from which to launch their assault.

All he could do had been to lie where he'd fallen, helpless – watching as the vermin sniffed curiously at his feet before scurrying for cover amongst the bloated and overflowing rubbish bags as the youngsters had run off – laughing, callously – not a single bone of remorse or regret for what they had done in their entire bodies.

"Sweet dreams Sherlock Holmes." He'd heard one of them crow, as they'd disappeared into the darkness, and into the night – the blood already beginning to pool copiously at his side.

After a few minutes he'd managed to rally himself, and with a great deal of difficulty had managed to stagger towards the entrance to the alleyway, but could go no further. If John came looking for him – and Sherlock knew that he would come looking for him, eventually – he'd need all the help he could get in finding him.

The rain pelted his swollen face, soothing his blackened eyes and washing away the dry blood, but more continued to ooze from his many open wounds.

He was dyeing – at least he was going to if somebody didn't find him soon – and the pain was now becoming unbearable.

Sherlock however was no stranger to plight. He checked himself mentally; blackened eyes, probably a couple of broken ribs, stab wounds to his back and side – thankfully not that deep otherwise he'd probably be dead by now – burst lip. There were some painful welts and bruises to his torso where they'd managed to land a couple of well-placed kicks once he was down, and some serious cuts and abrasions to his hands and lower arms from where he'd tried to defend himself.

Well, it could have been worse, he told himself.

He looked up to the sky, rain water stinging his eyes – making him blink back tears – and he wondered if John had even noticed he was missing yet.

He had no idea how much time had elapsed – his watch had been smashed in the attack – but the rain had now slowed to a half-hearted trickle and Sherlock knew that his friend would probably use this break in the weather to escape the shelter of the restaurant and make a break for home.

It wouldn't be much longer now… one way or another. Even whilst so close to death Sherlock was nothing if not a realist. He couldn't last much longer out in this rain, and he was beginning to feel increasingly cold and tired.

He let a subtle cry escape him as he pressed down harder on the deep wound in his side to try and stem the flow of the bleeding, and more blood immediately oozed out from between his pale fingers. He realised that it would be a bad idea to fall asleep, in his current state he knew that he might not wake up again if he did, and so he fought the desire instead – but it was quickly becoming a losing battle against the overwhelming urge to close his eyes… just for a moment… only for one brief moment. His vision was beginning to fade in and out of focus, and he could no longer make out anything more than a couple of feet away from him.

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt for him to rest, if only for a little while. His head throbbed, his back ached, and his sides were searing with an intense burning he'd never felt the likes of before – like a billion tiny, red hot daggers boring into several layers of raw skin, twisting their jagged edges and tearing into his flesh. Sleep would be a welcome release from the pain.

No sooner had he closed his eyes however than he heard the thud of urgent footsteps, kicking up the puddles with the tell-tale splash as they approached – they were male, Sherlock could deduce that, at least. He opened his eyes just a crack, wondering if the youths had come back for round two, and trying to decide whether he should risk calling out for help.

He was in a dilemma if conceivable much worse than finding himself bleeding to death in a solitary, darkened alleyway in the early hours of a Monday morning – if they, whoever they were, had come back to finish the job they'd started and he called out too soon there would be no second chances – his body couldn't stand another beating tonight. But if somebody didn't find him soon – the wounds to his back and side still bleeding profusely – he wouldn't last much longer. He was slowly bleeding to death – he deduced that he had less than an hour before he lost consciousness, and less than two before he died.

As he listened intently to their rhythm as they approached however the footsteps didn't sound very much like those of a young person – even and controlled, they sounded like those of a grown man; like those of somebody who was on a mission… maybe a mission to find somebody.

Perhaps even, he dared to hope, a mission to find him… and he decided to take that risk.

He opened his mouth to cry for help, but all that escaped him was a hoarse whisper.

He tried again – this time a little stronger but still nowhere near loud enough for anyone to hear him above the busy London traffic.

He tried to move, but as he did so another wave of pain – this time too intense to prevent his own screams before they escaped him – overwhelmed him. More blood oozed from the gaping hole in his side, and he collapsed back against the wall, exhausted – preying that John would find him.

' _Sherlock…_

 _Sherlock…'_

Even his own subconscious seemed to be conspiring to taunt him with the sound of his friend's voice. It sounded distant, a million miles away – like a half remembered dream – but Sherlock wanted to live, he'd chosen life, and so he shut his wondering mind out, closing his senses off to such mindless, rambling thoughts.

It wasn't difficult, he just had to channel his conscience, focusing only on that which was logical and rational – only that which would help keep him alive mattered.

He had no idea how much longer he lay there. Seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours then seemed to pass him by as he drifted in and out of consciousness, before he heard any sign of anyone making their approach again. Although – on reflection later on – he would realise that it had probably only been a matter of minutes before he'd felt the light of Lestrade's torch piercing his retinas, and had realised that John couldn't be very far behind.

"Sherlock…" The Consulting Detective thought he heard the Detective Inspector exclaim under his breath – as Sherlock put his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of Lestrade's torchlight – and the Lestrade caught sight of the bruised and battered face, and the scratched and bleeding arms of his friend.

"John, I've found him!" He called, and Sherlock didn't even try to conceal his smile as he heard the tell-tale splash of John's unmistakable footsteps – calm, controlled; the pace of a military man; but uneven, still baring the barely audible undertone of his psychosomatic limp.

"Sherlock… Sherlock… are you alright?" He called, stopping short as he immediately noticed his friend. There was a stunned and fraught silence as he took note of his injuries, and switched immediately into doctor mode as he glanced back at Lestrade before stooping down at his Sherlock's side.

"What happened to you?" He asked.

"Attacked…" Sherlock croaked, grimacing as, with gentle hands, John carefully examined some of the more obvious injuries to his friend's face and hands. "I thought I could take them…"

"Sherlock, is that your blood?" John asked, alarmed as he noticed the patch of deep crimson staining Sherlock's coat, and his attention was immediately drawn to the copious amounts of blood pooling at his friend's feet.

"They were just children…" Sherlock mumbled none-commitently.

The doctor sighed.

"Sherlock, I asked if that's your blood!" He demanded.

His friend looked back at him – a glazed and distant look within his eyes - and holding John's gaze for a moment, before a subtle bob of his head confirmed in the affirmative.

John's blood ran cold.

"They had a knife…" Sherlock explained.

"God…" He sighed.

With this Lestrade, who'd so far stood back looking on at the proceedings uncertainly, allowing the doctor to do his job, knelt down beside them. He grimaced as he set himself down in the pool of Sherlock's blood – and realised, to his alarm, just how much of it there really was.

John urgently prised Sherlock's blood soaked coat and shirt from his torso, and both men failed to conceal the fear they felt, nor to stifle an exclamation of horror, as the full extent of Sherlock's injuries became immediately apparant.

John's stomach churned – he felt phsically sick – knowing how serious his friend's injuries were. Sherlock watched as he and Lestrade took in the sight of the torn and twisted flesh of the deep wound in his side, still oozing blood.

"There's another to my back… not as deep though…" He explained weakly, before adding, "At least I don't think so."

"Lestrade, call an ambulance, now!" John demanded, already shaking off his own coat and tearing strips of material from his shirt sleeve to pack Sherlock's wounds and stem the flow of the bleeding. "And I need your coat!" He insisted before the Detective Inspector left, draping his own and Lestrade's over his friend's shoulders as he handed it over. "We need to try and keep him arm." He explained.

Sherlock looked at John through sad, frightened eyes – he knew that his condition was a serious one; his life now entirely reliant, precariously so, upon only a few more drops of blood.

He grimaced as John's instincts as a physician took over – the sight of the blood, and the twisted mess of mangled tissue bringing out his military medical training – as he went to work on his friend's wounds. For the first time since John had known Sherlock he didn't say anything – but just sat there with his back pressed up against the wall of the alleyway. John packed the wound and bound it as tightly as he could – but blood still continued to ooze out between the creases of the fabric.

When he'd finished he turned to look at Sherlock, who was pale faced and sweating slightly, but smiling weakly.

"I knew you'd find me." He croaked. John smiled. "But how did you know where to look for me?" He asked.

"Oh," Watson faltered, pulling a severely crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket and handing it to Sherlock – who took it with shaking fingers. "A messenger dropped this into the restaurant for me shortly after you'd left."

Sherlock looked at it, holding the scrap of paper out in front of him, and squinting – struggling to make out the terrible handwriting. The letters had been scrawled seemingly by the hand of a child, and his vision swam in and out of focus.

"What does it say?" He asked, handing it back to John, and rubbing his eyes. John took it, understanding that his friend was probably in no fit state to read anything in his current condition.

He looked him over with a sympathetic but critical eye. With this amount of blood loss Sherlock was bound to be feeling woozy and light headed at best, his blood pressure would have dropped dramatically, starving his body of oxygen.

He was pale, and shaking, complexion tinged with varying shades of grey, and his eyelids were beginning to droop heavily.

John knew that he was beginning to go into shock – a state which in Sherlock's condition could quite easily kill him – but there was nothing more he could do for him until the ambulance arrived.

He needed to say something to keep him talking, to keep him awake – he couldn't allow Sherlock to lose focus for even a moment.

"It says…" He faltered, reading from the crumpled up note in the sweaty and blood soaked grasp of his hand.

"Where has Sherlock gone?

When all is said and done,

He's just another rat,

Who's soon to have gone SPLAT!

Find Sherlock Holmes if you know where he's at.

Signed M…

And splat has been written in large bold capital letters. The whole note looks to have been written in blood."

Sherlock smiled.

"How sweet, he sent you a poem…" He laughed weakly. "How ironic…"

"He?" Watson frowned.

"Him… her… them… it doesn't really matter." Sherlock shrugged. His eyes were by now beginning to close – he was still fighting but having a hard time keeping them open – and his speech had started to slur. His teeth chartered, hammering together spasmodically as he began to shiver – John was quickly running out of ideas of how to keep his friend warm, but immobile. Inwardly he started to panic and began to wonder what was taking the ambulance so long.

He had to find a way to keep Sherlock talking.

"M… M… M…" Sherlock mumbled quietly to himself, and John feared that he was slowly starting to lose his already enervated grasp on consciousness. "Signed M…" He muttered.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew open, catching John off guard, but to his relief for that moment they appeared alive with their usual eagerness and flare. "Moriarty…" He exclaimed. This sudden burst of energy was short lived however, and was immediately followed by his collapse as he fell back against the wall, chest heaving, and exhausted.

"Moriarty? Sherlock, who is Moriarty?" Watson frowned, as he put a steady hand against his chest to restrain him, but Sherlock's eyes had already started to close – his breathing quickened in pace and became gradually more erratic and shallow.

John had good reason to be worried. From the amount of blood pooling at their feet he realised that Sherlock was probably entering into grade three critical blood loss, and there really was no more time to lose. They had to get him to a hospital, and soon.

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed, placing two fingers to his friend's neck and gently feeling the carotid artery for a pulse – he found it, weak and rapid – slightly tachycardic.

Sherlock's skin was cold and clammy to the touch, beads of cold sweat were already beginning to gather upon his pale forehead, and trickle down his sunken face.

"Sherlock… Sherlock…" He tried again unsuccessfully to rouse him. "Sherlock… stay with me… don't go to sleep now…" He pleaded.

John gently took his friend by the shoulders and began to shake him softly. "Sherlock…"

"What?" Sherlock snapped, his tone impatient as he forced his eyes open, and sending the young doctor reeling back in surprise.

John smiled. He couldn't help but marvel at the young Consulting Detective's strength. He was fighting against his own body just to stay awake – and winning. In his current physical condition that was no small feat.

"Nothing…" He sighed. "It doesn't matter…"

Just then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and turned to see that Lestrade had returned.

He took one look at Sherlock and the pool of blood still rippling red at his feet, and paled – turning back to look at John anxiously, his unspoken question etched into the deep ridges of his forehead.

' _How's he doing?'_

The doctor's expression was grave.

' _Not good.'_ _Was his silent response._

John could see that Lestrade too cared a great deal for Sherlock, in his own quiet way.

"The ambulance is on its way." Lestrade explained, voice hoarse with suppressed emotion, and broken as he tried to force it past the lump in his throat.

John nodded – urgently tearing off more strips of fraying material from the sleeve of his by now ruined shirt, as more blood continued to trickle from the deep puncture wound. Sherlock had managed to dislodge the makeshift bandages when he'd tried to sit up, and the area around the blades point of entry was by now thoroughly soaked through with fresh blood. Sherlock grimaced – evidently in a great deal of pain – as John pressed harder upon the wound to his side to try and halt the flow of the crimson fluid, causing the Consulting Detective to let out a weak moan.

"I'll go and wait for the ambulance ." Lestrade offered helplessly, and at a total loss of what else he could do to help. "Sergeant Donavan and Anderson are on their way to secure the scene…"

The doctor nodded.

Sherlock groaned impatiently with the mention of these two names, and both Lestrade and John looked at each other and, despite the seriousness of the situation, couldn't help but smile.

Their mutual friend obviously had some fight left in him yet… they just hoped that it would be enough.

After Lestrade had gone Sherlock managed to force his eyes open, and looked up at John – who was still tending to his wounds.

"John…" He croaked.

His friend looked up.

"Yes?" He smiled.

Sherlock sighed breathlessly – the tightness in his chest was, by now, making it difficult for him to talk, but the doctor could see that he was determined to say what he felt he must, and so, despite his reservations allowed him to continue.

"Thank you… for finding me." He whispered. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"You're welcome." John smiled.


End file.
